The Final Game
by KismetJeska
Summary: Moriarty picked the wrong brother to play games with.
1. Prologue

At first, Jim was the game master.

(Well, no, first he was a baby, then an infant, then a child. Even as a schoolboy, this beautiful cacophony inside his head drowned out the unbearable monotony outside.)

He had always run the show. He reigned over his house and his school. The bullies found their pets cut open, waiting for them when they got in from another day of making his life hell. The girl who turned him down found herself expelled for cheating the very next day. The _boy_ who turned him down didn't speak another word for almost nine years.

As an adult, he still played games. He oversaw them from the shadows.

(Take a dying man, a glimpse of hope and a bottle of strawberry speckled pills. Mix thoroughly and leave to marinate for… say, a few months. The final outcome will be worth it.)

When the final contestant won that game and the host let his master's name slip, Jim was unimpressed. One of the rules was that you must never ever tell who it was that pulled your pretty little strings. It was a shame the old man wasn't alive to watch his daughter scream, but there would be other days for that.

He played games with arrows and sandbags and then with chloroform and chlorine. That was the best game, the greatest game. It took planning but it was worth it. The trainers had been his favourite part. Such a simple touch, but was all the bait that Sherlock needed. He swallowed it up, hook ripping his throat open in his desperation to play a part. It had all been so very fun.

Jim had taken something of a back seat after that. It was pretty damn hard to follow something of that calibre. That level of intricacy and planning needed time and dedication. So he took a more backseat role and he became the storyteller.

Rather than leading Sherlock through hoops, he merely sat back and told him where to jump and how high. It was enlightening. It taught him that he didn't _have _to stage such huge events all the time. Of course, they were far more enjoyable, but that wasn't the point. A few gentle hints and nudges combined with a meek little man was all that he needed.

He enjoyed being Richard Brook. A few carefully placed phrases, and soon everybody was convinced that they knew him.

"Oh, Rich _Brook_!" they'd say. "I've heard that name, yes… yes, I'm sure I have somewhere." It was as simple as playing on insecurities. He just had to make them feel like they _should _know him, like if they didn't they were stupid. Left out. Left behind. Nearly everybody fell for it. They were all so eager, so desperate to prove themselves.

He pickpocketed their children out of spite more than anything else. He went to a child's party only once. The little girl who kicked at him and squealed like a pig was found a few days later. Huddled in a red cloak and nothing else, lost and starving and lonely in the woods. _Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?_

Of course, it wasn't in the press. In the end, the parents were very agreeable about not going to the police or the newspapers, even if they did take some… persuading.

Rich Brook was in a witness protection program now. There was always the chance that an obsessed fan of that nasty little fake detective could strike. The idea of a children's TV hero being murdered in the name of a fraud upset people. It would be so cruel, so unfair. Jim had found that nothing got people riled like a bit of unfairness. The world had accepted that Richard Brook needed to be hidden- they had applauded it, grumbled and nodded firmly. "About time that the government did something bloody right. That poor man. I hope he's safe."

With the game master at rest and the storyteller hidden away, it was time for a change. When he changed out of Rich Brook's clothes for the final time to meet Sherlock on the roof, he pulled on his new persona. Nobody would have noticed a change because everybody was an idiot. Except for Jim.

He made Sherlock Holmes disappear with no intentions of ever bringing him back. With just a few magic words, he sent a man to his death. And oh, yes, it was so very magical to watch. It cemented what he had already known: he would become the magician.

Nobody other than himself knew the details of what unfolded on the rooftop that night. A few knew the vague outline- he had swallowed his gun; head exploding before he got up and walked away. How he had done it was a mystery. A good magician never spoils the act, and Jim would not condone clamouring for his secrets. He moved away from London. It was just easier, and he could do with a change of scenery. A consulting criminal would be welcome anywhere there was crime, and crime would be welcome anywhere there was justice.

Birmingham would be a good place to start, he decided. It was big enough that he could lose himself in the thousands of faceless drones- but he knew parts of it. A man like James Moriarty had contacts in every corner of this pathetic little globe, and he hadn't worked all those years for nothing.

Exactly what happened in London now that he was gone was no longer any concern of his. He didn't care what they did with the body, or whether the doctor would cry, or what pretty little gravestone Sherlock would get- although he had to admit, he did hope it got desecrated.

The games were over. The story had ended. The magic, however, had only just begun.


	2. Chapter One

**A/N- I apologise in advance for the word count. **

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes liked to think of himself as a rational man. He disagreed with claims from certain people that he had a rather dramatic side; in fact, he was quite apt at not allowing emotion to rule logic. He wasn't like said certain other people, who he knew would take the news of his brother's death far worse than he.<p>

Mycroft finished the article (_poorly written, over-sensationalised, preceding a picture of a woman's mammaries_), and calmly set the paper aside. He took a sip of tea, and considered where to go from here.

There were kinder and better ways to be informed of a sibling's death, yes- but that was something of a moot point. Anguishing over the fact that he had learned of his only brother's death through a low-market tabloid wouldn't change anything, so there was no point in becoming upset over it. In fact, becoming upset would change nothing about this situation. Mycroft told himself that Sherlock's untimely death could not be restored by crying, shouting or wishing, and so he must refrain from any of these uncouth behaviours.

It was a little like telling the ocean to stop being wet.

Mycroft left the Diogenes Club just in time. It would be most inappropriate for one to be thrown out of one's own port of call for something as infantile as weeping. Mycroft could quite vividly remember the last time he cried, and he also remembered the train themed plaster his mother had applied to the wound.

_Stop it, _he commanded himself. He turned to the building and leant against it, head buried in his arm. _Stop it! _He began to sob, shoulders heaving, into his sleeve (a very expensive sleeve of a very expensive suit, which would be destroyed immediately afterwards to prove a point). Mycroft was scaring himself. He had never sobbed. It had always seemed so unnaturally _human_.

"Stop it _now_," he said aloud. His eyes widened, horrified by the sound of his voice. What on earth was that tremor? Puberty had been uncomfortable enough the first time around. The cracking voice making a reappearance was most unwelcome.

Mycroft attempted to stay calm. He changed tack, and reminded himself that he had always known this was going to happen. After all, the reason for all his worry over Sherlock had been justified; the man was in constant peril. When Sherlock wasn't close to death he had no idea how to live, and Mycroft had come to accept this. All the same, deep inside himself, he supposed had hoped that his surveillance and protection would be enough.

_If Watson had taken my bribe, this never would have happened. _Or perhaps the men watching the video cameras had failed. Somebody must have made a mistake, otherwise Sherlock would still be alive. Well, Mycroft would fire them. All of them. Dr Watson didn't work for him, but damnit, he'd recruit him and then fire him too. Quite emphatically.

"You alright, love?" a concerned voice asked, hand touching his shoulder. A man in a stunning suit bawling like a two year old on a crowded street did not go unnoticed, it appeared. Mycroft composed himself.

"Quite right, thank you, madam." He curled his lips into the obligatory smile, and the young woman smiled back reassuringly.

"Did you wanna come in for a cuppa or something?" she offered. Her silly offer made anger rise deep inside of him. He glanced around the street. _Look at all the people. _All so ignorant. They had no idea of what had happened, of who had died, of the kind of place the world was. He looked back at the woman in front of him.

Her biggest worry in life was undoubtedly some petty complaint- probably the rising price of hair dye (_white blonde yet dark roots: ten to fourteen days past recommended redyeing- well applied makeup demonstrates desire to look attractive so not for lack of caring- more likely due to lack of funds as indicated by posture, vocal tones and suggestion of location- to her house rather than to a more common, neutral yet expensive area such as a coffee shop_). The act of deducing hurt him, and the unforeseen emotional pain only furthered his irritation.

"No, thank you. It's very kind, but there's no need." Mycroft's eyes had stopped leaking by now, thank God. He removed a monogrammed handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes with it forcefully.

"Oh, pet. You were cryin', weren't ya?"

"No. It doesn't matter. But thank you anyway. I'm going now- goodbye, madam."

"But-"

"Goodbye!" Mycroft said again, turning his back and striding away. The woman called after him, but he ignored her, moving faster. That had been the most embarrassing episode of his life- but even more alarmingly, he didn't care.

Sherlock was dead.

He had devoted a significant portion of time and resources to keeping his brother alive. And in the end, the ungrateful idiot of a man had stepped off a rooftop and unfolded against the pavement. It didn't make any sense. There was no way on Earth that Sherlock was a 'fake'. Incredibly irritating and downright immoral, most definitely, but he was not a liar. Mycroft knew his brother- well, he used to.

None of this made any sense at all. Mycroft thought of the assassins he had presented John with and wondered if they had played a role in Sherlock's demise. But how? The only explanation that he reached again and again was that somewhere, somebody had failed him. They would be found and… dealt with.

A quiet, analytical side of Mycroft pulled up a mental list and diagnosed him as in the second stage of grief: anger. He did not seem to have experienced the usual period of denial. He assumed that his mind was too well controlled to attempt such trickery. He wondered if rage might be drowning his more logical thought patterns, and made a conscious effort to control it. He pushed it to the side for a few moments and examined the basic facts.

Sherlock was accused of being a fraud. After multiple accusations, he committed suicide by jumping off of a building. Well, that was one way of dealing with opposition.

It might have involved the assassins, and would no doubt have had Moriarty playing a role somewhere. That man seemed to be behind everything. Mycroft recalled his mocking glare and twisted smile, and his stomach lurched a little at the sudden suggestion. Had what he had told Moriarty led to Sherlock's death?

No, of course not. It had to be somebody else's fault. He had just made a little mistake. As much as he might try to forget it, Mycroft was human. He made errors, and then he fixed them. No, he shouldn't have told Moriarty what he did, but at the time it seemed like the best option. A few minor details about Sherlock brother had seemed a small price for his protection.

_And instead I drove him to take his own life. _No, that couldn't be it. He was Mycroft ran the government. He _was _the government. He would not make a mistake so stupid as to kill a member of his own family, for God's sake.

Mycroft paced while he thought, until he eventually sunk down on a nearby bench. It was filthy and finalised his decision to destroy this suit as soon as possible, but it wouldn't matter for a few moments.

* * *

><p>Mycroft supposed he ought to be glad. After his brother's death, he had hardly had any desire to eat. Years of endless off-and-on dieting had been utterly smashed by simple grief. Perhaps if he had been an orphan he never would have needed to try Atkins.<p>

Looser fitting trousers, however, didn't compensate for the loss of one's younger brother. Only a few weeks after Sherlock's untimely departure, Mycroft found himself sitting in a very important board meeting for a very important man, when an obscure thought popped into his head. It simply and without apology stated '_I would quit this job tomorrow if it would bring Sherlock back'. _He had immediately repressed the thought, murdered it with logic and then kicked it in the head a few times for good measure.

It was still true, though.

* * *

><p>In an ideal world, one month would be the maximum time needed for grieving. Mycroft's own employees did not get any time off at all when their loved ones died, and he was determined he would not prove an exception. If he spent more time than usual shut up in his office or in the Diogenes club, then that was nobody's business but his.<p>

Yet a month later, he was still plagued by illogicality. Recently, his mind kept returning to their childhood. He managed to skirt around the worst fragments, but his brain had a fixation on young Sherlock.

'_I'm going to be a detective!' Sherlock announced proudly._

'_I thought it was a pirate.' Mycroft turned the page of his book, bored. 'So I'm supposing that you get seasick when father took you out yesterday?'_

'_No!' Sherlock denied a little too vehemently. _

'_Don't worry, dear, mother said you were very brave.'_

'_Shut up!' Sherlock knocked Mycroft's book out of his hands. Mycroft glared at him icily, and Sherlock had the gall to respond in the same way. It looked a little odd on a five year old._

'_I want to be a detective! I can solve puzzles and shoot people and wear a cool swishy coat!'_

'_I think you're confusing detective and super villain, Sherlock.' _

The flashbacks were bothersome; a pre-pubescent Sherlock had been annoying enough the first time around. Then again, so had post-pubescent. Mycroft had spent quite a lot of time trying to decide at which point exactly Sherlock had been his most annoying, and had eventually decided that current Sherlock was the winner. His being dead was interfering with Mycroft's functioning quite significantly, and it was most unappreciated. If Sherlock had any common decency at all, he would stop being so foolish and just… return. After all, if anybody could find a way, it was him.

Mycroft did not recall delusion being a stage of grief, so he had to assume it was more to do with his greatly increased alcoholic consumption as of late.

* * *

><p>Two months on, Mycroft had more or less given up. It had been gradual, but definite. On the outside, he got up and went to work and made decisions on behalf of the country. On the inside, his brain was stuck on a loop of melancholy, Sherlock, depression, numbness, Sherlock, anger, regret, sadness, Sherlock and, once or twice, pure and utter guilt. He had stopped trying to fight the emotions eventually, and just allowed himself to internally collapse.<p>

When at home, his main occupation was sitting in his armchair, pouring glass after glass of old, expensive liquors and downing them without tasting them. His waistband had tightened again, but he didn't notice. It was a fairly simple and common equation of man plus alcohol plus self-pity, and it created an intoxicated and withdrawn individual. Two months ago, Mycroft would have rather died than be that kind of creature. Two months on, that was beginning to look like a reasonable option.

When the phone rang, he debated not answering. He decided quite firmly on not answering. It rang out, then rang again. It rang out. It rang again.

The fifth time it began ringing, he scowled and finally snatched it up.

"What do you want?" he demanded, already eyeing up a bottle he had sworn he wouldn't drink tonight. The line crackled, and for a few moments there was no reply. Mycroft was about to bang the phone down when he heard the muttered phrase.

"He's alive."

Hope shot through Mycroft like an electric shock. "What?"

"He's alive. Moriarty is alive.'

The hope collapsed into a thousand tiny shards that carved splintered him inside. "And why precisely should I care?" he sneered.

"I don't know. That isn't my business."

"Oh, for God's sakes. Who is this?"

"I can't say." The voice was male, Mycroft thought. But anybody could get anyone to do anything these days, so that wasn't worth dwelling on. "I'm not giving a name, and good luck tracing the call. I'm not here to play games with you, Mr Holmes. James Moriarty is still alive. That is all." There was a neat click from the other end and a smooth tone. Mycroft threw the phone at the wall. It seemed the right thing to do.

Mycroft picked up the second bottle of wine. Very old, very expensive. After a few seconds consideration, he hurled it against the wall too. It shattered, a kaleidoscope, alcohol drenching the carpet and the wallpaper and the discarded phone. The noise rang through the empty (_so empty) _house, but Mycroft hardly heard it. He pulled out his second mobile (private), and quickly scrolled through pages of news and articles. Ahh, there it was.

'Richard Brook' had entered a witness protection program at some point post Sherlock. Mycroft vaguely remembered reading the news. He had assumed that it was code for 'Sherlock murdered him, brutally, and smiled the whole damn time'. He had even been a little impressed that he hadn't had to forge any paperwork or pull any strings on Sherlock's behalf. Perhaps he had overestimated his brother's capabilities.

He leant his head against his hand, then recoiled at the sudden wetness. He was crying. _Again. _Mycroft swept off to the bathroom immediately. He dunked his head in cold water, combed his hair, straightened his suit. When he felt like himself again, he looked up into the mirror. His eyes shone back at him- not with tears, this time, but with something else. With decision. With finality.

The anger had returned, but it was back to how Mycroft knew it best. An icy overtone, wrapping around his core and piercing every inch of him with the desire to slowly and utterly destroy. There was none of this aching, painful _need_ to break things, to break himself. It was cold and calculated and a little like slipping on a familiar coat. He blinked, and was almost shocked when his reflection blinked back. He was in himself again. Obeying his own commands, under control.

In his puerile state, he had made a thousand threats he would never carry through, but this felt different. Moriarty hadn't shown any signs of action since Sherlock's death, but that meant nothing. There was no reason why he couldn't start killing again in a day, in an hour, in the next second. Mycroft believed in extinguishing sparks before they had time to grow into infernos.

James Moriarty was alive. That was not something Mycroft was prepared to allow.


	3. Chapter Two

**Author's Note- Thank you so much to everybody who reviewed or put this on Story Alert/ Favourites! That kind of thing genuinely makes my day. I'm going to stop apologising for the word count from here on, so just be warned.**

**J x**

* * *

><p>To be frank, John Watson was dull these days. His surveillance feed was gloomy at the best of times, and downright depressing at the worst. It gave Mycroft added motivation to remain composed and unfeeling, but that was all it was good for.<p>

Relaxing backwards, Mycroft clicked a button. John's abnormally clean apartment shot away, and four small screens rose up in its place. They were all titled seemingly meaningless strains of numbers and letters. The name of the window he had dismissed translated to 'John Watson'. Mycroft did not click this again. He was finding that there was a limit to how long you could watch a man stare at a wall blankly (Mycroft's record, from one especially insomniac night for both of them, was eighty-one minutes).

Besides, there were at least two other people currently watching feeds from various cameras placed around John Watson's apartment (without his knowledge, of course), so Mycroft didn't feel the need to worry. He clicked the second instead and found the room was empty. He selected all the cameras individually, but nothing. Gregory Lestrade was still at work, it seemed. He pulled out his (third) mobile phone: work, confidential.

_L?  
>Mycroft Holmes<em>

He sent it to two of the four he had stationed undercover there. They weren't new members of his… team. They had been told quite firmly to consider two months for which they had received no instruction to be a rest, and nothing more. Switching targets from Sherlock to Lestrade was to be a mere change of division.

The third click brought up a video of an aging woman, watching a rerun of what appeared to be a makeover show. She didn't look particularly happy, but she didn't look overly sad either. It was an improvement, Mycroft supposed. After scanning the screen carefully for a few minutes, he switched to the last window.

221B Baker Street remained, as ever, empty.

Mycroft had restarted surveillance the morning after his decision. He used to have fairly extensive coverage of Sherlock, but after his death it had seemed rather pointless. He hadn't considered that the others could be in danger- and to be blunt, he hadn't particularly cared. The only one he was even close to caring about was Dr Watson, and judging by their last meeting they were no longer on speaking terms. All the same, Mycroft did find himself devoting slightly more time to watching the doctor's feed. It was wasted time; John could no doubt defend himself better than the policeman or landlady. The extra attention was one of the few illogical desires that Mycroft that had deemed permissible.

The two texts he had received confirmed Lestrade's position, and so he closed the program down. He had managed to deal with a nasty little business regarding Taiwan, and so was more or less free until the next day. Re-joining the world meant he had more work than he had gotten used to and his little mission meant that he had less time than usual to do it. But it didn't matter. Mycroft would like to see anybody that had a problem with his time management attempt to take it up with him. He really would.

His investigation into Moriarty was so far relatively unsuccessful. But it had only been three weeks, and these things required time. His abnormal brother would have found him by now, yes, but Mycroft preferred the slower, more sophisticated route. His enquiries would pay off.

He knew the man was no longer in London. He had been keeping an eye out on any unusual or repetitive crime cases, but hadn't spotted any clear patterns so far. Mycroft had checked the witness protection agencies more for fun than anything else. Yes, there was a file for one Richard Brook. It was as shallow and faked as the smiles of Mycroft's colleagues, and it took mere seconds to gleam that it had no useful information. All it told him was that 'Rich Brook' had no plans of returning any time soon.

His phone buzzed against his leg. _L left SY. Follow? _

_No.  
>Mycroft Holmes<em>

Policemen were not easy to tail without arousing suspicion. It wasn't impossible, but it wasn't that easy and Gregory Lestrade could take care of himself for one trip home. With the positions of all three targets confirmed and a work-free evening stretching out ahead, it was time to implement stage two.

Mycroft checked feed number one, turning the volume up. John had switched to his laptop. A few taps later and Mycroft saw that he was looking at old posts from Sherlock's blog_. _How nauseating.

HELLO JOHN.

The words appeared on John's screen without a moment's warning. Mycroft was a little disappointed when John didn't even move.

"Go away, Mycroft," he said out loud.

WE SHOULD HAVE COFFEE.

"Thank you _so _much for honouring my request."

WE WILL HAVE COFFEE

"I don't like coffee."

THAT ISN'T TRUE.

"Well, I don't like you."

IRRELEVANT.

"It's incredibly relevant. How is it not relevant?"

SENTIMENT IS NOT THE PURPOSE OF THE PROPOSED MEETING.

"It's not sentiment, it's a fact. I don't like you, I don't trust you, and I sure as hell don't want to see you."

IRRELEVANT.

COFFEE.

"No."

I'LL SEND MY PEOPLE TO PICK YOU UP.

"You will absolutely not."

THEY CAN BE WITH YOU IN TWENTY MINUTES.

"It's eleven at night. I'm tired. I'm certainly not getting in a damn cab."

I THINK I WOULD MAKE IT A LITTLE MORE UPSCALE THAN THAT.

"Oh, I have no doubt. Goodnight, Mycroft. Please don't try and contact me again."

WHY NOT? YOU CARED FOR SHERLOCK.

"Jesus Christ, is that what this is about? I can hardly spy on him now. The coffin was black and all of two people showed up to his funeral, neither of whom were you. What else can I tell you?"

I DO NOT REQUIRE INFORMATION.

"So what do you want?"

YOU.

John's recoil this time was quite clear. Mycroft smirked.

"In which way, exactly?"

DON'T BE VILE.

BUSINESS.

"I don't do business."

REVENGE, THEN.

John hesitated. "I don't do that either."

ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE WOULD SUGGEST OTHERWISE. A picture of the Chief Superintendent filled John's screen, and he frowned.

"That wasn't revenge. That was just… reaction."

THEN REACT TO MY BROTHER'S DEATH.

"Why? We can't change anything. Sherlock-" John swallowed. "He's dead."

BUT MORIARTY IS NOT.

"So? It doesn't concern me anymore. Let me say it one last time: Sherlock is _dead_, Mycroft. He isn't coming back. There's no point in trying to get avenge him because it won't change a damn thing."

BUT YOU STILL CARE ABOUT HIM.

"No, I don't. He's gone, so why would I?"

YOU DON'T THINK ABOUT HIM?

A lesser man wouldn't have picked up John's hesitation. "No."

Mycroft laced his hands together and rested his chin on them. A few minutes later, he typed out a reply.

YOU ARE AFRAID.

"I'm not afraid. I'm not _anything_. I don't want anything more to do with Sherlock, or Moriarty, or you. I just… want to forget."

YOU ARE AFRAID.

BE BRAVE.

Something like a smile pulled at the side of John's face, but it was bitter and soon fell.

"Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity," he muttered.

YOU ARE BRAVE.

"I'm not sure if that's insulting or not, to be honest."

YOU COULD BE A SOLDIER.

OR A SPEAKER. A SELL-OUT.

John tensed. "Look, I don't want to talk about this."

YOU COULD MAKE MILLIONS OUT OF SHERLOCK'S DEATH.

"Don't-"

YET YOU ELECT TO BE A LOCUM DOCTOR.

WHAT MIGHT WE DEDUCE ABOUT YOUR HEART?

"Fuck off!" John shouted. He leant forwards and slammed the laptop shut, hard. He collapsed forwards, head buried in his arms, shoulders shuddering slightly. He continued to cry silently as Mycroft watched, feeling a strange mixture of pity and revulsion. John had not lifted his head when Mycroft hit 'call' next to the number he had already entered.

"Go."

* * *

><p>Mycroft adjusted his tie and checked his emails. He had received the message confirming that John Watson was in a limousine, currently headed towards an (ostensibly) abandoned warehouse. The doctor had not been overly compliant, but had eventually been persuaded. Mycroft was ready to leave to meet them there. Everything was going to plan so far; he had even remembered to instruct the chauffeur to bring a chair. It was clear from video that John's limp had returned, and Mycroft wasn't above a few considerations to curry favour.<p>

Mycroft's hand closed around the door handle when he became aware that he was not alone. He reacted to the ripple of air without thinking about it, dropping to the ground and covering his head. The hammer crashed through his front door, goring into the thick wood with an angry thud. He rolled onto his back and kicked his assailant hard in the stomach, taking satisfaction in the man's pained grunt.

He tried to get to his feet but was caught off guard as the attacker lunged, his fist catching Mycroft hard across the face, sending him ricocheting against the door. The man wasted valuable seconds trying to pull the hammer out of the door, and Mycroft sat up, spat blood across the carpet, grabbed the other man's arm and pulled. He gasped as his arm stretched, contorted across his back. Mycroft wrenched and he howled.

The man dropped to his knees and Mycroft took a second to look at him. He wore a dark, hooded jacket, hiding his face. Mycroft pulled it away to yank at the man's hair, forcing his head backwards.

"You have precisely twenty seconds," he said smoothly. "Talk." The man gasped for breath, but didn't reply.

"It would seem I am not making myself clear. You have precisely twenty seconds before I snap your arm in two." Mycroft checked his watch. "Fifteen."

The attacker tried to break free of the hold. Mycroft responded by moving his other hand to jab at the man's right eye, hard. It wasn't glamorous, but it did the job. He cried out, but he went slack in Mycroft's grip.

"Thirteen."

Nothing.

"Eleven."

Nothing.

"Nine."

"What do you want me to say?" the man blurted out.

"It's been a while since I encountered an attempt as crude as assassination by _hammer_. I would like to know what it is that drove you to attempt to put a mallet through my skull. Six."

"I won't tell you."

"Interesting. Four." Mycroft slowly began to move his hands into the correct position. It had been a few years since he carried out a break, but he didn't mind experimenting a little until he got it just right.

"Please!"

"Three." He applied pressure- not enough to cause any real damage, but certainly enough to induce alarm.

"Two." The man gave one final, pathetic attempt at struggling away. Mycroft didn't even bother to attack him. He just leant in, up close to the man's ear. His lips parting, he whispered:

"One."

"Okay, okay, I'll talk! I'll fucking talk, get the fuck off of me!" The man roared, thrashing in Mycroft's grip. Mycroft immediately let go of him, and stood up. The man looked up, confused and fearful, as Mycroft brushed his suit down.

"Up." The man clambered to his feet without questioning the command. Mycroft nodded.

"We are going to have a conversation. You are going to answer my questions. I hope that is now clear to you." The man nodded, touching his hand to his head. He paled when he saw the bright scarlet sheen coating it. Mycroft sighed, reached into his pocket, and delicately plucked out a tissue.

"Here. Now, follow me. If you are experiencing any intrusive little thoughts about harming me in some way, rest assured that following through on them would be an extremely poor decision on your behalf."

The man didn't speak again as he followed Mycroft, and sank into the indicated chair.

"And so, we begin. What is your name?" The man didn't reply. Mycroft waited for three seconds exactly, counting them out calmly in his head. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a sleek, black gun. He cocked it and pointed it, unwaveringly.

"It's been a while since I had to use one of these, but I'm rather inclined to believe it isn't something you easily forget. A little like riding a bicycle, don't you think?"

"Adam, it's Adam. Call me Adam."

"That isn't your real name." Mycroft ghosted a lazy thumb over the trigger.

"No, no, it isn't- but that doesn't matter, does it? I can tell you things that matter. Like who I work for: Moriarty, James Moriarty."

"Good lord, you'd never hold up under torture. Fine. We'll proceed to question two: where _is_ Moriarty?"

"I don't know," he said warily, eyeing the gun. "I don't! We've never even met. I don't even know what he looks like."

"But you must _speak_ to him. So, for the final puzzle- why does he want me dead?"

"I don't know."

"You never asked?

"Questions are kinda discouraged in this particular profession."

"My brother is dead. I'm sure you've heard of that if nothing else. That was Moriarty's doing. You must understand that I am not overjoyed with that particular turn of events."

"Yeah, yeah," Adam dismissed. "Your ickle brother's dead. Cute. Get to the point." Mycroft repressed a rather strong urge to hit him in the face.

"The _point_, dearest Adam, is having destroyed Sherlock, why would Moriarty care about me? I shouldn't even be on his radar. I am of irrelevance."

"I don't know. I just do what he says."

"How noble."

"Noble? Who needs noble? I'm powerful." Adam's looked up and smiled. It sent a chill down Mycroft's spine. "I'm untouchable. I kill people, lots of fucking people. I slit their throats and watch them choke on their own blood, watch the terror drown them inside their eyes."

"Delightful."

"Ain't it just? And that isn't even the best bit." Adam leant forward as if confiding a secret, forgetting or ignoring the gun's presence. The cockiness that always seemed to accompany criminals was beginning to show. "There's eight of us here. Seven other people like me."

"Commoners?"

"Assassins. In London, waiting for you. Coming for you. First one to put you in the grave next to your bastard brother gets a pretty little payout from Mr Moriarty."

"Oh, Adam. Will you never consider limiting how and when you divulge your information? And to _whom?_"

"Nah, that won't be a problem."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. This isn't over. See, when you let me go- because you _will _let me go- I will hunt you down. I will kill you, and you will deserve every fucking cut."

"Which quite nicely brings us back to my question: why does your boss want me dead?"

"I don't think you understand, Mr Holmes: it don't matter. Even if he'd told me, you ain't gonna be around long enough to do a damn thing about it."

"I'm not sure you understand either, Adam. I wasn't asking for what James Moriarty told you. I'm asking for what you think."

"I told you! I don't know nothing."

I'm not asking for facts; thinking and knowledge rarely if ever go hand in hand. I'm asking, Adam, for your honest and oh-so valued opinion."

"Alright, then." Adam licked his lips. "You really wanna know?"

"Go on."

"I think… he's scared."

"Oh, yes?"

"Yeah. I think he's afraid of you."

Mycroft looked into Adam's eyes and smiled. "He should be".

* * *

><p>"If you're going to kidnap me, can you at least turn up to my interrogation on time?" John was shouting even as the door opened and Mycroft walked in.<p>

"Good evening," he replied mildly, propping his umbrella up against a wall.

"No, it's not a good evening. It's a _bad _evening because I was put in a fucking Bentley and driven to some godforsaken warehouse at one in the morning to meet a crazy man and his freakish minions and _no I do not want a chair!_" Mycroft's drone looked over at him for guidance. Mycroft waved his hand, and the man removed the offending furniture. John glared.

"Dr Watson, please. It was _not _a Bentley; it was a luxury Sedan."

John rested his head in his hands. "I've died, haven't I? I took too much Zoloft by accident and now I'm dead, and this is some strange, ridiculous Hell."

"John, do you really think that the devil is this glamorous?" Mycroft swept his hand over his suit. John did not seem amused.

"I'm in my pyjamas, Mycroft_._"

"Indeed you are. But as you have been for the last sixt-" Mycroft checked his watch. "I do apologise- the last seventy hours- it seems a rather moot point." Mycroft's face softened a little. "We will get this done much quicker, I assure you, if you will just humour me."

"Okay, fine. Let's embrace the madness and the Stockholm syndrome. Why were you late?"

"I had to see a man."

"About a dog?"

"About a bullet. It's all sorted out now- no need for you to dwell on it." Although there were now bloodstains on his favourite rug. Life was cruel. John kept his gaze fixed on Mycroft, but didn't bother pushing for any more information. Mycroft respected that. "Next question?" he asked the doctor.

"Why am I here?"

"Define 'here'. Here as in 'with me'? Or here as in 'in a warehouse?'

"Either. Both." John broke off eye contact. "What's going on?"

"All will be revealed."

"I don't like this," he said quietly.

"Oh, but Dr Watson- you will. I can assure you: you really, truly will."


	4. Chapter Three

**Author's note- I really struggled with this chapter. I'm not sure why, I just got a huge block about it. I'm awful with time scales too, so if you notice any huge discrepancies I'm sorry. (**Oh, and of course Mycroft has access to technology that probably doesn't exist. He's Mycroft.)****

**I hope it's okay and the word count doesn't kill anybody. Thank you so much if you've reviewed/favourite/read this- it means a lot.**

* * *

><p>The block of flats was unremarkable; the tenant was not. Mycroft squinted up at it, lit by the strangely bright September sun. One of the third-floor apartments held a quiet man named Jeremy, who worked at the library and wore glasses a little too big for his face. He was wanted in five countries for murder and a further eight for various degrees of assault. His name was also not Jeremy, but that was a little less relevant.<p>

It had only taken a few days for Mycroft to find details of exactly where the man lived. Years ago, he treated men like that like wasp nests, leaving them alone as long as they weren't causing problems. It wasn't nobility but necessity that drove Mycroft to take action against him now: all the signs pointed towards Jeremy Bird being number six out of the eight assassins. Adam had been the first. They had found number two with relative ease, and attempted to persuade him to change his plans in a non-lethal fashion. It… hadn't gone to plan. But Mycroft and John's wounds were healing, and they had escaped any long-term damage. Mycroft opted to remember the day in a positive light. After all, he had learned two things: John was good with a gun, and there was no point wasting time on mercy.

Three and four had been easy as well- they were living together in some bizarre, convenience-based plan. Mycroft had briefly wondered, as he was snapping the woman's neck, if this made him a serial killer. The snarl had frozen on her face and the knife dropped from her hand. He stood there for a few moments, holding her loosely in his arms. When John looked over, he had sighed.

"Don't," John had said.

"Pardon?"

"Don't _look _at them like that. If these people attacked you, would you fight back?" John had cast his eyes back to the body bag he was zipping up. Dealing with the corpses was not an issue- it was always relatively simple to find a company with a large enough incinerator and lax enough security.

"Of course."

"To kill?"

"If it was needed."

"They're assassins, Mycroft, it would definitely be needed. And as all eight apparently had plans to attack you, these aren't just random, innocent people. So these are just… I don't know, pre-emptive strikes. It's no different from killing them when they ambush you at home- in fact, it's kinder. You're saving them petrol money. So don't go feeling guilty."

Mycroft had wondered what exactly had broken inside of John, and when. This wasn't the kind of mission you could take on and expect to have your soul be the same innocent and untouched place afterwards. Mycroft had seen and overseen enough deaths and John had been an army doctor, so he supposed they were hardly the two most naïve and hopeful of people. All the same, he had expected a little more resistance to the slow and calculated string of murder. Somewhere between Afghanistan and this particular moment, he had thought, John had fragmented inside. Whether it was being shot, or Sherlock's death, or a thousand other things, Mycroft had no way of knowing. Out loud, he had simply asked "Why would I feel guilty?" and dealt with the other body in silence. And since then, if he'd felt any guilt, he hadn't noticed it. Five had been easy.

Mycroft was broken out of his reflection by the soft hum that announced John's arrival. A door opened and a well-dressed man slid out, and hurried over to open one of the back doors. John clambered out, scowling a little at the couple across the street pointing at the car.

Their current arrangement involved spending very little time together. Mycroft would locate the next target's location, a car would be sent for John and they would arrive at the scene more or less simultaneously.

"I could drive myself, you know," John greeted Mycroft.

"Oh John, let's not waste time," he countered. He gestured at the building. "Jeremy Bird. Once we've dealt with him, there'll only be two left."

"Right. And then what?" It was a fair enough point. Dealing with the assassins was stage one, although it was more for protection and peace of mind than anything else. They hadn't discussed what would happen afterwards yet.

"And then we move on to number seven." It was something of a cop-out, but Mycroft could live with himself. "Have you got…?"

"Of course," John said, briefly opening his coat to reveal the small handgun hidden inside. Mycroft nodded in approval. With any luck they wouldn't need it.

"Let's make this one quick."

Getting into the flat was the biggest challenge, but all it took was a touch of voice acting. Hardly ground breaking stuff. Once inside they took the elevator together in silence, tinny music seeming an odd backdrop. They rung Bird's doorbell and waited patiently. He opened the door to find John smiling, introducing himself as a new neighbour and asking if Jeremy had any idea where the-

The end of the sentence never came, as Mycroft stepped smoothly in and clamped a soaking rag over his mouth. Chloroform was old-fashioned and unrefined, but it did the job and soon they were laying Bird face down in the half-filled bathtub. Mycroft left John holding onto one wrist, calmly waiting for the pulse to stop, and wandered off to investigate the flat. A part of him was sometimes a little depressed by how easy it all was.

There were hundreds of pounds hidden inside history books and a fair amount of weaponry in various locations. In ten minutes, Mycroft had found the gun in the drawer, the knife in the shoe, the gun in the wardrobe and the gun in the salad drawer. It all seemed a little excessive and not particularly effective. The only thing that shocked him was when he opened a hardback book to reveal a small colour picture of himself, with 'MYCROFT HOLMES' scrawled across the back in black marker. There was nothing remotely intelligent or secure in Bird's defence system- topped off by the fact that he had opened the door to a stranger without thinking twice. Mycroft had to wonder whether Jeremy Bird was adjusting to England badly, or whether he had merely gotten very lucky with a lot of very stupid victims.

"Done," a voice near Mycroft's ear muttered. He nodded, and turned to John. "How do we get rid of him without anybody noticing? A lot of people live here," the doctor asked.

"A lot of people are idiots. Let's hope the odds are in our favour."

"Haha, no. Come on, Mycroft, what's the plan to get him out?"

"We don't."

"You're just being annoying now."

"The police will be out tomorrow, find him dead, and report his death as a boring old accident."

"And that'd be all well and good, except that this wasn't a normal accident."

"And these won't be normal policemen. I know a few men from Scotland Yard that will be quite happy to pronounce this a mere piece of misfortune." Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew two small, sealed bags- one empty, one containing bundles of plastic.

"What about the CCTV footage?"

"Really, John, why are you even asking?" Meticulously, Mycroft peeled the disposable gloves from his hands and pushed them into the empty bag. They both pulled on new pairs from the second, carefully opened bag. The precaution had been John's idea, and it wasn't a particularly bad one.

"I do wonder if anybody ever finds the fact that the camera suddenly opted to film the wall for five minutes interesting."

"They can usually be persuaded otherwise."

"Is there anywhere that's not crawling with your people?" John sighed. Mycroft had to think for a few moments.

"I have never had much interest in infiltrating Primark."

"Shocking. Right, let's clear out then. I don't want to be here any longer than I have to." He glanced over at Mycroft. "Keep your gloves on till we get outside."

"Any records of our presence would be…. lost," Mycroft reminded him.

"Yes, but let's not give the poor sods that work for you any more to complain about." Mycroft scowled.

"I do not appreciate being told how to run my own operation." Mycroft wasn't used to discussing tactics with others. He didn't collaborate; he ran independent ventures with people who liked to agree with him and get him coffee. So far, John was rather resilient to doing either of those things.

"So what was the plan for if somebody walked in on you drugging him?" They both knew the plan- one gunshot, straight to the heart, and run as fast as you can. At least, Mycroft had assumed that John knew. It seemed the obvious response.

"I have everything under control-"

"No, you really don't. If being with Sherlock taught me anything, it's that no matter how much you plan and how flawless you think that plan is, it can go wrong- hell, it probably will go wrong. And sometimes that's fun and fixable and exciting, and sometimes it's not and people die. I don't want to find out which one it is this time, so can you just keep the damn gloves on?" After a few tense seconds, he added a relatively forced "Please?"

Mycroft offered an even more forced smile. "Of course." They both kept the gloves on until they were far away from the building, and Mycroft amused himself by imagining punching the doctor in the face, repeatedly. It was far too crude and animalistic a desire for him to ever act upon, but visualising it brought a certain spring to his step.

"So, only two left?" John broke the silence as a familiar black car pulled up.

"Yes. I think I could have a lead on seven, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know." John nodded briskly, hobbled back to the car and let himself in. Mycroft watched as they pulled away. John always seemed to limp more after they had finished their business for the day. When he was shooting or stalking or punching, all of his tremors and weaknesses vanished. After things calmed down they returned with a fury, and Mycroft knew it was more than remorse.

It was more an odd kind of melancholy nostalgia that he could read from John. It showed the most when, after particularly intense or dangerous stints, he would look over at Mycroft and the light the adventure had brought him would slowly die in his eyes. Mycroft supposed that it was rather painfully familiar for him. Holmes and Watson, together, solving crimes. Except that he was the wrong Holmes, and his version of crime solving involved a lot less investigation and a lot more garrotting.

Some days Mycroft felt no small amount of pity. Other days it was a creeping disdain that grew stronger the more he thought of it. How weak to care so much. How pathetic to think so much of the dead and gone.

God, he missed Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Seven had been… interesting. They had attempted the chloroform trick again, but this woman had been too quick and soon had John pressed to the ground, boot raised to kick his skull in. Mycroft shot her without really thinking about it. It was incredibly lucky that she had enjoyed regular walks, so blood sprayed across an abandoned moor rather than a cheap motel room.<p>

"How the hell do we explain that?" John asked, sitting up and frowning at the violently coloured mud. They had gone with digging in the end- turning the earth over to hide the rusty red stains, filling small bags with the more incriminating pieces of dirt. They had thrown them into the incinerator along with number seven herself. If anybody ever happened to follow that particular unmarked path through that particular deserted area of common, all they would find would be ground. Nothing hidden under it, nothing to make them suspect things weren't as they should be.

Number eight was a man unfortunate enough to fall off of his balcony. The police would never find a suicide note, but there was enough evidence in the flat to suggest an unhappy life. Bottles of alcohol in the fridge and dozens more empty in the bin. Rather mediocre poetry about feelings and love and pain, on crumple sheets of lined paper. Planting evidence was even easier than removing it at times.

For number eight, Mycroft didn't stay around to manipulate the repercussion. He had taken one look at John's face when the man hit the ground and a torrent of blood began to flood out, and he had gone. He didn't even offer the doctor a hand as his leg buckled, instead turning and leaving to deal with something, anything else.

And so this was it. Four months later, with another free evening, the same chair did not house the same man. In the last four weeks he had been the cause of death for eight people. Granted, they had hardly been pillars of society, but they were hearts that he stopped and eyes that he closed. How little he felt when he reflected on that unnerved him a little. How little he felt when he considered stage two of his plan even more so. Mycroft rolled his neck slowly, loosening his tie a little. It didn't matter. Feelings were merely thoughts that couldn't fit in the brain and so were outsourced to the heart. Mycroft's brain was large enough to hold everything he needed, so sentiment was more or less obsolete. And if, late at night, he remembered the dead and the dead inside and his breath caught in his throat a little, then that was just tiredness. Nothing more.

Taking to the streets, Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the pavement as he walked. He had never been stupid enough to consider himself a hero, but he did wonder at which point one became a villain. Darkness was approaching, and he had to work quickly. He was pleased when the man in the alleyway distracted him from pointless philosophising.

"How would you like to earn some money?" The man looked around to where Mycroft was standing, blocking anybody else from entering.

"I'm sorry?" he frowned.

"You heard me," Mycroft continued smoothly. Horror dawned in the man's eyes.

"Do you think I'm a whore?" he spat.

"No, of course not," Mycroft soothed. "What I'm asking you to do only requires a few moments of your time, nothing more. If you could do this for me, I would be most grateful." Stepping forwards, he reached into his pocket. He only pulled the wad of money out slightly, but it was enough for the man to see.

"I'm listening," he said grudgingly. Of course he was. Mid-thirties, slightly overweight, unhappily married with two children that he couldn't support and hadn't particularly wanted in the first place. This was no loyal friend or brave soldier, greed suppressed by loyalty. This was a man with depression and desperation tattooed on his face. It had only taken forty minutes of crowd searching to find him, the perfect fit to Mycroft's requirements.

"I need you to make a phone call to a man. You will say exactly what is written on this." Mycroft pulled out a neatly folded sheet of printed text. "Do not say anything that is not written on that piece of paper and do not leave anything out."

"Who's the man?"

"Nobody that will interest you."

"Can I see the paper?"

"You need to agree to do as I say first."

"No, I wanna see it before I make any decision."

"You need to agree to do as I say first." The man hesitated for a few moments, unsure. Mycroft shifted his hand slightly to reveal the money again. This time he kept it there long enough to let the man see the number 50 printed on the top note. The man bit his lip.

"Okay," he agreed. "Now?"

"Yes."

"Here?"

"Yes." Mycroft handed him the sheet and watched him unfold it, nearly dropping it in the process. "The phone number is written at the bottom. I will take the page back after you have finished." The man scanned his eyes over the text and his eyes widened a little.

"Seriously?"

"Oh, yes."

"Is this safe?"

"Of course it's safe." As safe as Mycroft could make it, at least.

"And I just use my mobile?"

"Yes, please do." Phone boxes had fixed locations and landlines could be traced. A mobile phone's source was certainly not beyond discovery, but it seemed the safest option. "I will need to borrow it for one second, though."

The man gave up his phone alarmingly easily to a stranger in an alley. Mycroft fitted the tiny microphone as though he had done it many times before (which he had), and handed the phone back without offering any more explanation. He pushed small, barely noticeable headphones into his ears. The man just stood patiently. People were both fascinating and terrifying at times.

"First, a quick check. Ring… the speaking clock."

"What, 123?"

"Yes. If you would be so kind." The man did as Mycroft asked, and a few seconds later Mycroft could hear a voice cheerfully informing him that at the third stroke, the time would be 7:34PM and twenty seconds.

"Is that all?" the man's voice did not come through the earphones. Mycroft nodded approvingly; as usual, the technology department had outdone themselves. He had no interest in wasting precious tape on a man stood a mere few feet in front of him.

"That will be fine, thank you. You can hang up." He waited while the man ended the call, and then pointed at the sheet. "Now please, make the call. Don't forget to withhold your number."

Worry clouded the man's features. "Are you sure?"

"I'm more than sure."

"What did you do to my phone?"

"It doesn't matter. Please make the call."

"But-" Mycroft moved his fingertips to slowly rest against the barely noticeable bulge in his jacket. He didn't really want to do this at gunpoint, but there were worse ways to carry out a task.

"I can assure you that it is in your best interests to agree," was all that he said. The man hadn't seen the weapon and he didn't seem convinced, but he began to slowly dial the number anyway. Mycroft listened to the beeps, and the first ring. Second ring. The phone answered on the third ring.

"How did you get this number?" a familiar Irish lilt asked. Despite everything, Mycroft's stomach curled. There was no questioning that that voice belonged to James Moriarty. The man blinked helplessly at Mycroft, who gestured to the sheet. His hands shaking slightly, the man began to read.

"M-my name is Jackson. I-"

"But this is my personal mobile, Jackson," he cut in. "I don't let people have my personal mobile unless they know me personally. You don't work for me and you don't know me, so my first question remains."

Mycroft waved his hand at the card. "Again," he mouthed. The man nodded, and repeated his first line.

"My name is Jackson. I need your help."

"Answer my question."

"I need you to kill a man for me." Mycroft's little helper wavered at this line, but only a little. Deep down, people weren't as good as they wanted to be. They couldn't be, not if a stranger in a well-tailored suit could convince them to order a man's death. Mycroft heard a slow, throaty chuckling from the other end of the line.

"Oh, you're rather to the point, aren't you?"

"His name is Liam Davies." The man continued to read from the card, giving an address, phone number and physical description. He did very well, his voice remaining cool and detached. It must have helped that to him, Liam Davies wasn't a real person. That was quite alright- Liam Davies wasn't a real person to Mycroft, either.

Moriarty had remained uncharacteristically quiet whilst Liam detailed the imaginary target. "I don't do London," he said when Liam had finished.

"I'll make it worth your while." That laugh again, but this time hiding something dangerous.

"Are you attempting to bribe me? Because I can assure you, I don't need your money." The next line on the card was something of a non-sequitur, but after a confirming glance at Mycroft, the man read it anyway.

"Do you have assassins stationed in London?" Mycroft had debated that line- it was a little risky. He was beginning to wonder if they'd lost Moriarty when the reply finally came.

"He'll be dead within a week. I don't require payment. If you contact me on this number again, I will pull each of your bones out through your skin and I will take my time about it. Are we clear?"

The man read out the final line. "I'll be waiting." He hung the phone up as the card instructed him, and let out a long, shaky sigh. "Shit," he breathed, leaning heavily against the wall. "Shit, shit, shit. What the fuck did I just do?"

"What I told you to," Mycroft said bluntly. "Do not contact that man again and do not answer any calls he makes. Do not attempt to contact me or tell anybody of this meeting."

He pulled out the notes, bound together with a rubber band, and threw them at the man's feet. "Three hundred. You won on a scratchcard."

Mycroft left the man having a panic attack, scrabbling at the brick walls with his nails. In the gloom and with his thoughts preoccupied, Mycroft didn't notice the slow smile that lit up the man's face, or the gentle hum in his ear that told him the phone call had not yet been ended.


End file.
